48 cheap English clothes-the little jacket, the Tweedledum cap on his head He outdIstanced his clothes; he was better than they were. But he was rushing on this train into an existence where his clothes would be too good for him. "D'you know about any ghosts?" said the boy again. "Oh, sure," said McLaughlin, and shivered, for he still felt sick, even though he was sharing a bottle with the Limey bride. He said, "Indians see them," which was as close as he could come to being crafty. But there was no reaction out of the mother; she was not English for nothIng. "You seen any?" "['m not an Indian," McLaughlin started to say; instead he saId, "Well, yes. I saw the ghost, or somethIng like the ghost, of a dog I had." They looked at each other, and the boy's mother said, "Stop that, you two. Stop that this minute." "I'll tell you a strange thing about Dennis," said his mother. "It's this. There's times he gives me the creeps." Dennis was lying on the seat beside her with his head on her lap. She said, "If I don't like it I can clear out. I was a waitress. There's al- k " ways wor . "Or find another man," McLaugh- lin said. "Only it won't be me, girlie. I'll be far " away. "Den says that when the train stopped he saw a lot of elves," she said, complaining. "Not elves-men," said Dennis. "Some of them had mattresses rolled up on their backs. They were little and bent over. They were talking French. They were going up north." McLaughlin coughed and said, "He means set- tlers. They were sent up on this same train dUrIng the depres- sion. But that's nine, ten years ago. It was supposed to clear the unemployed out of the towns, get them off relief. But there wasn't anything up here then. The winters were terrible. A lot of them died." "He couldn't know that," said Mum edgily "For that matter, how can he tell what is French? He's never heard " any. "No, he couldn't know. It was around ten years ago, when tImes were bad. " "Are they good now?" "J eez, after a war " He shoved his hand in the pocket of his shirt, where he .t / f., kept a roll, and he let her see the edge of it. She made no comment, but put her hand on Den's head and said to him, "You didn't see anyone. Now shut up." "Sor 'em," the boy said in a voice as low as he could descend without falling into a whisper. "You'll see what your Dad'll give you when you tell lies." But she was halfhearted about the threat and did not quite believe in it. She had been at- tracted to the scenery, whose persistent sameness she could no longer ignore. "It's not proper country," she said. "It's bare. " "Not enough for me," said Mc- Laughlin. "Too many people. I keep o h " on movIng nort . "I want to see some Indians," said Dennis, sitting up. "There aren't any," his mother said. "Only in films." "I don't like Canada" He held her arm. "Let's go home now." "It's the train whistle. It's so sad. It h o d " gets 1m own. The train slowed, jerked, flung them against each other, and came to a stop. It was quite day now; their faces were plaIn and clear, as if drawn without shading on white paper. McLaughlin felt responsible for them, even com- passIonate; the change in him made the boy afraid. "\Ve're getting down, Den," said his Mum, with O d " w great, WI e eyes. e take another train. See? It'll be grand. Do you hear what Mum's telling you? " He was determined not to leave the train, and cl ung to the window sill, which was too smooth and narrow to provide a grip; McLaughlIn had no diffi- culty getting him away. "I'll give you a present," he said hurriedly. But he slapped all his pockets and found nothing to give. He did not think of the money, and his watch had been stolen in Montreal. The woman and the boy struggled out vvith their baggage, and McLaughlin, who had descended first so as to help them down, reached up and swung the boy In his arms. "The Indians! " the boy cried, cling- ing to the traIn, to air; to anything. His face was momentarily muffled by McLaughlin's shirt. His cap fell to the ground. He screamed, "\Vhere's Mum? I never saw anything! " "You saw Indians," said l\Ilc- Laughlin "On the rail fence, at that long stop. Look, don't worry your mother. Don't keep telling her what you haven't seen. You 11 be seeing plenty of everythIng now." -MAVIS GALLANT . THE MAGPIE is sharp, unshy- an eloquent, raucous, black - white-glaucous blade among birds, who lives in a nest made of hair, grass, mud, and down from thIstles. He is clever and can be taught to talk, but prefers to converse In mellow whistles, harsh qua-quas, terse cocks, and with his claxon can sound a tocsIn for bunting, vireo, Brewer's sparrow, and for the narrow, wan, rubiginous wren. Cousin to jay and crow, his flight erratic and hIs manners low, he is a disorganization fellow. A joiner of clans, still he is singular, a criss-cross, angular, dissenting member whose regular retreat IS west of Chicago, east of the Beat. Unscrupulous, half-daft, black fore, green aft, wary of gust and chary of gale (half of him is tail), left to his own devices, this slightly haywIre country squire proves a deft committer of theft, collector of things, of coins, clips, pins, and any dazzling bit he can light upon-junk or gem. It's the same to him. He simply swipes it, makes an exit. His marital problems are few. The Britannica expert has noted that, when his spouse is dead, he (the pie) "in common with the raven, the Jay, and many birds of prey, has 3 remarkable capacity . . . for obtaining a new mate within a day or two." Singular hayseed, Godspeed! -JON SWAN